


That Was Close

by aunt_zelda



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Death Threats, Exhibitionism, Inappropriate Erections, Knifeplay, M/M, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Shaving, Threats of Violence, Violent Thoughts, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:52:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aunt_zelda/pseuds/aunt_zelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon ends up staying very still on the hotel sofa, Illya holding a straight razor to his neck. This might have been a mistake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Was Close

**Author's Note:**

> Written for this prompt on the kink meme:  
>  _Illya/Napoleon, shaving kink. One of them shaves the other with a straight razor. That's it, that's the prompt._
> 
> https://kinkfromuncle.dreamwidth.org/640.html?thread=9344#cmt9344
> 
>  
> 
> Kind of took the prompt in a weird way, hope it works out.

“This is very foolish of you,” Illya says, as he slides the razor along Napoleon’s cheek.

“Oh?” Napoleon raises his eyebrows. 

“Do not move,” Illya’s grip on his chin tightens. “As I was saying, this is very foolish of you. And you are supposed to be smart man.”

It is a little strange, now that Napoleon thinks about it. They’d been arguing, again, about something innocuous. Napoleon had been bemoaning how difficult it was to shave his chin especially, Illya had insisted that shaving was not a problem for him, Napoleon had challenged him to do a better job. And now here they were, Napoleon sitting on the hotel room’s sofa, Illya running a blade over his neck. 

“I am smart,” Napoleon says, realizing he sounds like a petulant child. 

“This, this is not action of smart man,” Illya waves the blade in the air, catching the morning sunlight.

“What, if I’d bragged about how I was the best shaver in the CIA, you wouldn’t have made me prove myself on you?” Napoleon demands.

“I would never do this,” Illya says easily. “I would only bare my throat to a superior. Never fellow agent, and certainly not an American.”

It is, Napoleon decides, rather unsettling. Illya is already a tall man, now he towers over Napoleon, blade in hand, Napoleon’s head tipped back. Napoleon is reminded of sheep waiting to be slaughtered, and a chill runs through him. 

“Maybe I just trust you.” Napoleon smiles, trying to play off the tension building within him.

“That would be supremely foolish.” Illya pauses. “Unless this is elaborate game to test me? To see if I will take advantage of such … tempting … opportunity?” 

Napoleon’s mind swims, remembering the games of chess Illya plays against himself _for fun_. Of course the Russian’s mind works in ways like that, layers upon layers. 

“Will you?” Napoleon asks, before he can stop himself. 

Illya freezes. He stares, for a very long moment. 

Then he slowly, deliberately, turns Napoleon’s head to the side, tilting his chin up and to the right, completely exposing Napoleon’s throat. Illya’s right hand, still gripping the razor, moves in, brushes ever so slightly against the spot just below Napoleon’s jaw, where his pulse is thrumming.

“It would be easy, if I started here,” Illya murmurs, voice eerie and soft. Napoleon wonders wildly if Illya is trying to hear his heartbeat, pounding in time with the vein in his neck, millimeters away from the razor. “Clean. Quick. You would paint the wall in an arc, very dramatic. You would fall, down to the floor, twitching.”

Napoleon wants to shiver, but he finds he can’t move at all. He’s paralyzed, like a mouse before a snake, and that’s hardly a comforting analogy given his predicament. He can’t look away from Illya, can’t break the gaze they’re trapped in. Napoleon has no idea what will happen if he looks away first, but he doesn’t want to find out. 

“I would follow you,” Illya nods, more to himself than to Napoleon. “Cradle your body in my arms, in your final moments. You deserve that. It would not take long, but I would be with you until the end.”

Illya holds Napoleon’s gaze for a breath, another … and then he looks away.

Napoleon is still wound with tension, frozen in something more than fear, but less than terror. Whatever just happened, he came very close to something deadly. 

Illya continues to shave him with slick, practiced movements. Perhaps he helped his father shave, when he was a child, before his father was sent to Siberia. Napoleon stays very still and silent as Illya finishes, rubs a damp towel over his cheeks and chin and neck.

“I have frightened you.” It is not a question.

Napoleon pretends it was a question. “Yes.”

“Good.” 

Napoleon looks up sharply. “Why?”

Illya spreads his hands. “You should not forget who I am, who you are. We are teammates, for now. Someday, that could change. Perhaps someday soon. If that day comes, I would not like you to be caught unawares.”

“Wouldn’t you?” Napoleon pushes. 

“No, I would like you alert. That way, it would be much more satisfying to dispatch you. No pleasure from taking a man who did not see it coming, who had no chance to fight.”

Napoleon’s stomach churns at the thought. His face flushes and he looks away.

“Nyet,” Illya grabs him by the chin again, fingers grasping smooth and tender skin. 

Napoleon gasps, nerves singing. 

“You are frightened, but that is not all …” Illya strokes Napoleon’s chin with a thumb.

Napoleon feels his face reddening. This is absurd, not to mention highly inconvenient. The Russian, of all people?

“Ah. That, I cannot help you with.” Illya glances down pointedly. 

Napoleon looks down as well. He’s hard, straining against his trousers. Somehow he missed that, during all the terror and razors held to his neck. Napoleon makes a soft noise of frustration and embarrassment. 

Illya shifts in his seat. “I could, perhaps … remain? If that would help speed your … progress?”

Napoleon opens his mouth to deny it, but there’s no denying this now. “I would appreciate it.”

“Is no trouble.” Illya settles back against the couch, running his eyes along Napoleon’s body. “Well?”

Napoleon’s face stays red as he reaches down, unbuckles his belt and pulls himself free. He’s never done this in front of a man before. He’s had men before, many times, but he’s never done something this … intimate with one. Usually a man wanted Napoleon’s hand or mouth on their cock, they didn’t want a show.

What is Illya getting out of this, Napoleon wonders as he begins to stroke himself. He’s never demonstrated any interest in men before, certainly not Napoleon himself. Or perhaps (though Napoleon would never admit it) Illya is truly a superior spy.

After a few minutes, Illya becomes visibly impatient. “Are you close?” he asks, annoyance in his voice.

“It’s not a race, tovarich,” Napoleon shrugs. “I like to make it last. Unless you want to help me?”

Illya looks at him, steely gaze impenetrable. Perhaps Napoleon went too far this time, perhaps … 

Illya snorts, almost contemptuously. Then he pushes Napoleon back until he’s flat against the cushions. The Russian straddles him, just below his waist, and hunches down over Napoleon. The pose is almost vampiric, his breath ghosts against Napoleon’s face and neck … and then he leans back upright. The razor is back, pressed against Napoleon’s neck. 

Napoleon breathes shallowly, feels the metal on his skin.

Illya raises an eyebrow, tilts his head slightly.

Napoleon resumes his progress, hand working faster now. His eyes lock with Illya’s, and again he cannot bring himself to break the gaze. Every breath he takes brings his throat against the razor, so close to death, so close he can feel it, feel the blade on his skin, feel Illya’s weight trapping his legs and pinning him to the couch.

Illya’s wrist twitches, and the razor opens a shallow cut along Napoleon’s neck, just to the left of his carotid artery.

Napoleon comes, the flush of pain and orgasm twining together within him so intensely he’s afraid he might explode. 

Illya is up, cleaning the razor off in the sink, before Napoleon can even manage to sit up. 

“You call that ‘not helping?’” Napoleon gasps out, wiping his sweaty face on his sleeve. 

“‘Helping,’ would have meant my mouth on your cock,” Illya calls over his shoulder, as if he’s merely stating a fact of the weather.

Napoleon stares, openly.

“… and you would have come much faster.” Illya turns, smiling.

Napoleon slumps back down onto the sofa with a groan. One way or another, the Russian is going to be the death of him.


End file.
